


find me if I stray

by the_ragnarok



Series: cat!Jon [3]
Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Acephobia, Caretaking, M/M, Non-Sexual Kink, Obsessive Behavior, Past Abuse, Past Rape/Non-con, Pet Play, Self-Harm, Victim Blaming, implied eye horror, less worms than canon-typical worms but more worms than otherwise expected, past elias bouchard/jonathan sims
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-18
Updated: 2020-02-18
Packaged: 2021-02-28 07:08:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,143
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22790008
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_ragnarok/pseuds/the_ragnarok
Summary: Jon goes on an obsessive spiral of reading shitty internet comments. Martin helps.
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan Sims
Series: cat!Jon [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1622008
Comments: 51
Kudos: 536





	find me if I stray

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Exmoose](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Exmoose/gifts).



> My thanks to Mx_Carter for making me curse the existence of tenses, and to Exmoose, whose prompt this was.

All in all, this is Jon's fault. He‘s the one who broke the cardinal rule of the internet: never read the comments section.

Jon doesn't know what he’s doing reading an internet advice column, anyway. He can't remember how he even got there, but there he is, browsing through strangers' misfortune. It’s weirdly addictive, all the myriad ways in which people's lives go absurdly off the rails. He’s waiting for data from one of the newer researchers to compile his presentation, and it’s something to do in the meantime. 

_Dear Auntie,_ the letters all begin, and continue variously: _my parents won't pay for my art school education_ , or _my girlfriend stopped taking care of her appearance_ , or _I wanted a promotion at my job and they took someone else._

_Dear Auntie, I don't want to have sex, but my boyfriend is really insistent._

Jon blinks at the letter, and reads it through. The woman (Jon assumes the writer is a woman. The column in general seems aggressively heterosexual) writes of a diminished interest in sex, for no reason, which her boyfriend is growing impatient about, and he’s taken to drastic measures, like going down on her in her sleep.

At that last part, Jon barely manages to control his recoil. He reads the columnist's response tense and guarded. 

_Dear FRIGID,_ begins the reply, _I'm so sorry that happened to you, and I don't think you deserve the name you signed this letter with._ The columnist goes on to explain consent, and how fucking people in their sleep is not it. Jon lets out a long breath.

Then he scrolls down.

_Maybe a good fucking would take the stick out of FRIGID's arse_ , says one comment. _I understand that you're upset_ , says another, _but do you really expect him to stay celibate?_ Yet another reads, _He was just trying to show you a good time ffs. Do you think your pussy's that appealing first thing in the morning?_

Sudden sharp pain in Jon's arm has him looking away, to where he's unconsciously scratched himself enough to make a red, raw welt. He makes himself put his hand down. 

He reads the rest of the comments in succession, continuing after Lourdes brings him the data he'd needed. He'll just read one more comment, and then he'll be done.

Not all comments are like that. Some are genuinely supportive, but Jon finds himself skating past them, repelled like oil from water. Just as well. The less comments to read, the sooner he’ll be done.

At the bottom of the screen, he finds a link leading to a list of posts about sexual assault, and another one about asexuality. He opens both.

* * *

"You should thank me," Elias says, pinning Jon down to the mattress with one hand. "Nobody else would take this much time with you. They'd just give up and find someone less difficult."

Jon can't speak. His mouth feels full of mush, tongue thick. He tries to struggle and manages only the weakest flinches. In his other hand, Elias is holding a fountain pen. 

The nib is wickedly sharp, breaking skin when Elias sets it down to write on Jon's chest. Jon can't see, but he knows the writing spells _Property of_ , and Elias's signature. 

Jon gives up struggling and pants through the pain. His eyes almost fall shut when he realizes Elias hasn't put the pen down. He's looking Jon in the eye, smiling, and the nib looms impossibly large, so close that Jon can't focus.

"Time to make you perfect," Elias murmurs.

Jon wakes up. 

He's still under the heavy blanket, but right now he needs to move. Needs to be anywhere other than a bed. It wouldn't be the first time he took a walk at night, even if it's bitterly cold outside. The neighbors haven't complained yet.

* * *

Jon doesn't have time to read advice column comments at work. He does anyway, diligently tallying the sum of casual human brutality. The kind ones are soon forgotten, smothered in a sea of filth. _It's not rape if you never said no. You brought this on yourself. What were you thinking? Who would even want you like this?_

* * *

_Maybe go to sleep,_ Martin messages him at 3am. Jon nods, remembers Martin can't see him, and types agreement. He doesn't go to bed that night. 

_It's not his fault that there's something wrong with you,_ say the comments. Jon curses and yanks his hand away before he can tear out any more of his hair by the roots.

* * *

Elias has a bucket in his hands and a nasty smile on his face. He upends the bucket over Jon where he's tied up, immobile.

The contents of the bucket are white and squishy. Jon gags at the sickly sweet stench, and gags again when he realizes what he's sitting in: a mass of writhing maggots.

"You never said I couldn't," Elias says, unbearably smug. 

Jon spends an hour and a half in the shower after waking up, the water first scalding hot, then icy. He comes out shaking violently, some of it from the cold. 

He goes to do some more work. It's fine. He's fine.

* * *

Martin sets down his water glass. It makes a small, precise thump on Jon's kitchen table. "Alright. Will you tell me what's going on?" 

Jon looks at him, uncomprehending. Martin's edges are blurry. Jon has not gotten much sleep in the last few days.

Martin must take this as a challenge, because he tallies on his fingers: "One, you sleep less than usual, which I didn't think was humanly possible. Two, you keep checking your phone, and you never do that. Three, your arms..." Martin hesitates. "I know it's none of my business, but you have all these new scratches and I don't understand where they're coming from." He meets Jon's gaze for a moment, then looks away. "I'm worried."

Jon also averts his gaze. "You don't need to worry about me," he says. His heart hammers in his chest. Wonderful, now he's got Martin all concerned. Lovely. 

"I don't do it because I need to," Martin says. 

Something in his voice makes Jon look at him again. Martin's eyes are intent on him. Martin says, "I've been telling myself a dozen times not to intervene. To give you space. And all I want to do is--" he clamps his mouth shut. 

Jon breathes shallow, quick breaths. "Finish that sentence."

Martin's mouth purses, but he says, "I want to sit on you and make you sleep and eat until you don't look like a zombie." He bows his head, looking blindly at Jon's shoes. He sounds miserable when he says, "I know you don't want that, but I don't know what to _do_."

"I'm sorry," Jon whispers.

Martin's gaze jerks up. "What? No, _I'm_ sorry... ugh, I went and made a mess of this, I knew I would." He rakes his hand through his hair. "You don't understand. It's not that I feel bad for you." Martin's shoulders hunch. "Or, okay, I do to a degree. But I lie in bed at night and I think about, I don't know, brushing your hair, and it just, it gets to me. I can't explain it. I want it enough that I'm worried all the time I'll push it on you, and I don't want that, I want you to have all the space you need--"

It takes a moment for Jon to realize that the reason Martin fell silent is that Jon's arms are wrapped around him. Jon himself is pressing against him, chest to chest. He’s milliseconds away from extricating himself and apologizing when he catches the awe-struck look on Martin's face. He murmurs Jon's name, sounding enthralled.

Suddenly, Jon wonders whether Martin would want to kiss him on the mouth. They've never done that, Martin had never even asked, and it's not an act that occurs to Jon on its own. Right now, that sounds... maybe not bad. He suspects, though, that telling Martin that would be insufficiently enthusiastic. 

Martin doesn't ask, anyway. He smoothes Jon's hair back from his forehead and asks, "Do you want to go lie down under your blanket?" and Jon can only nod with gratitude.

* * *

He sleeps for two hours. It's nowhere near enough. It's the best and most rest he's had since this wretched mess began. 

Martin fetches him tea - in Jon's own home, it's a mystery to him how Martin even knows where everything is - and waits for Jon to drink before asking, "Does this mean you'll let me help?" What Martin said earlier, about wanting to care for him, strains the limits of credulity. And yet, here he is, sounding _eager_.

Jon shakes his head and resigns himself to remaining perplexed. "I have no idea what you could do," he says. 

Martin _hmms_. "What do you normally do when you get like this?"

That's a good question. Jon considers it. When he was with Georgie, he'd hidden, avoiding her until he got back to himself. The last time this happened, he'd gritted his teeth and waited it out. It had taken a while. 

Elias... Elias had clucked at how difficult Jon was making life for himself, and imposed rules to prevent Jon from following whatever obsession had him in its grip. Jon would invariably break those rules, and then Elias would punish him.

That, come to think about it, had tended to pull him out, even if the cure was almost worse than the sickness. "You could punish me," Jon says, and adds, "or not," when Martin visibly pales.

"If that's what you want," Martin valiantly attempts, but Jon cuts him off.

"I don't want it, but punishment did snap me out of this funk. It's the one alternative I know."

That gets Martin thinking. "What about punishment do you think helped?" He winces but adds, "If you wanted to tell me about it, maybe I could help you figure it out. Was it," he hesitates, "some kind of catharsis? You felt like you were bad, but you were punished and that was it, you could stop punishing yourself?"

"Maybe," Jon says slowly. "It's not about feeling like I'm bad. I don't think so. I just can't stop." The last words come out with all the fury of frustration behind them. "Not even if you told me, or if you physically stopped me. That would just make it worse."

"I wouldn't," Martin says, earnest, looking Jon in the face. "This isn't your fault. This is a shitty thing happening to you, and you didn't make it happen. Whatever's going on, exactly, I don't think you're doing this on purpose."

Jon laughs, short and ugly. "You want to know what happened? I went into a website and read the comment section. Now I keep reading them. When I run across a particularly nasty one, I reread it several times over. Does that sound like I'm doing this by accident?"

"It doesn't sound like you're enjoying yourself, or like you want to continue," Martin says, unmoved.

Jon is abruptly exhausted. "I don't know. I don't care. Hurt me if you need to, just make it stop." His voice cracks on the last word. 

Martin regards him for a few moments, rock-steady. "If you ask for it, if I find absolutely no other way, then I will. But can I try something else first?"

"Whatever you want." Jon closes his eyes and lets his head fall back against the sofa.

For a moment, Martin is quiet. Then he says, "Can I put your phone away? You can have it back later if you want it." Jon takes it out and hands it to Martin without opening his eyes. "Thank you," Martin says, the words low and heartfelt. "Now go back to bed. Make yourself comfortable, but lie on top of the blanket."

Jon goes. It's not like he has a better idea. 

Martin follows after him. "I'm going to roll you up in the blanket," he says.

That gets Jon to sit up. "What?"

"Not if you don't want me to," Martin says. "But I thought it might make you feel better."

The shitty thing is that it sounds like it might. "I can't ask you to do that."

"You didn't ask," Martin, points out, infuriatingly reasonable. "I offered. Would it help if you were a cat?"

"Why would you roll a cat up in a blanket?" Jon demands.

Martin shrugs. "Maybe he's hurt and needs medical attention, but will scratch and bite if you try to help."

Fuck, fuck, fuck. Jon hugs himself and tries not to fold under the sheer level of _want_ , of how good that sounds. "I don't need medical attention."

Martin opens his mouth, closes it, then says, "I'm not offering to give you medical attention. Not the real kind, anyway. I thought I might clip your fingernails, so you don't hurt yourself so much if you keep scratching."

Jon hunches. "How do you know I've been doing that?"

Martin stares at him. "I can see your arms. It's hardly a mystery." He blushes slightly when he adds, "I know what kind of marks you leave when you scratch, even if you never scratched me this hard." He pauses. "If you told me what else you've been doing, maybe I could come up with ideas to help with that as well."

Jon sags back into the blanket, too tired to keep arguing. "Alright. I suppose we might as well try." He ignores Martin's last suggestion, but he does add, "That means you won't stop if I hiss or try to scratch?"

"I could stop."

Jon waves that off. "No. The safeword is _Elias_ , or I'll tap you twice. Does that work?" He ignores Martin's muttered, "That's sure to ruin the mood," in favor of trying to let himself be.

It's easy to feel the throbbing where he pulled out his hair, the cracking pain where worrying at his chapped lips made tiny wounds. How his jaw hurts from grinding it for so long. And he's tired, so tired. He just wants to rest.

He does growl and swipe his hand at Martin when he rolls him up in the blanket, but it's a half-hearted gesture. He just wants to make his objections known. 

"I know," Martin coos at him softly. "I know. But let's see if I can make you feel a little bit better." Cats feel no shame, and good thing too, because Jon suspects he would have been deeply ashamed of how much better he's feeling already. 

Rolled up in the blanket, it's easier to lie still and wait for what happens next. Martin spends a few moments rummaging in Jon's bedside drawers, until he straightens with a triumphant cry. "Aha! Found it!" He brandishes a nail clipper like it's a major discovery. Then he sits on the bed next to Jon and gently extricates Jon's hand from the blanket. Jon hisses for form's sake. 

Martin wields the clipper with care and efficiency, his other hand holding Jon's like it's something delicate. Jon flexes his fingers when Martin's done with them. His fingertips feel oddly bare. The other hand goes just as quickly. 

"But you love my fingernails," Jon says, as Martin's finishing up his left little finger.

"I love you more," Martin says absently. "If you're talking, are you up for telling me other ways you hurt yourself?"

Jon does. Martin brushes his hair, slow, barely pulling at all, tying it back with so much care that Jon's heart flutters. He rubs the sides of Jon's jaw, just enough pressure for the muscles to loosen. He fishes lip balm out of his bag and shows it to Jon. "Do you want to put it on? Or," Martin's voice falters for a minute, "I could put it on for you."

Jon looks at Martin with his eyes gone unfocused, everything in his sight fuzzy. Slowly, he nods. 

The lip balm is the type that comes in little tubs. Martin dips his finger in it and hesitates until Jon gives him an infinitesimal nod. Then he takes Jon's jaw in one hand, still so careful, and rubs his finger over his lips. The last time anyone touched Jon's mouth, it was to pry it open, but Martin's touch is feather-light. The lip balm stings a little, and it smells like cinnamon. 

"Done," Martin says at last. "Can I kiss your forehead?" Jon nods. Martin's lips are dry and oddly respectful on his skin. "Do you want to be held?"

Jon nods again, and lies limp as Martin arranges him, still ensconced in the blanket, so that Martin's sitting with his back to the headboard and Jon's back is leaning against his chest, separated by a thick layer of blanket. Martin's breath stirs the short hairs on the back of Jon's neck. He closes his eyes.

* * *

He wakes up still heavily wrapped in blanket and Martin. Martin opens his eyes and his arms, letting Jon shuffle away. 

"How are you feeling?" Martin asks.

Jon lies back and thinks about reading comments, cautiously, like prodding at a bad tooth. The notion is there, but it feels coated over with a layer of _who cares?_ "I think I'm better," Jon says, the words bursting out of him in a sigh of relief. "Martin. Thank you. Thank you so much."

Martin regards him with a soft, fond expression. "I know you won't believe me, but it was genuinely my pleasure."

Jon hesitates. He doesn't want to break the mood, but a part of him needs to know. "You said you loved me."

"I did, yeah." Martin doesn't look guilty or defensive, maybe a little worried. "You don't have to say it back. If you want, I won't say it again, either. But I do."

The corners of Jon's eyes prickle. He-- he-- he can't stand for Martin to not know how much Jon cares for him, how grateful he is. And the only thing that comes out, more urgent than before, is, "I can't be your cat."

This time, Martin doesn't flinch. He looks curious, a little sad. "I know."

"But." He swallows. "Maybe you could be my human, if you liked." It's a paltry offering, compared to everything Martin has given him, but it's the only thing Jon can give.

He's slightly horrified to see Martin's eyes misting over. "I would love that," Martin says, choked. "That would be amazing." He's hugging himself, and no, that's wrong. He should be hugging Jon instead. Jon insinuates himself into Martin's arms and, after a moment's indecision, lands a peck on his cheek.

Martin cuddles him and pets his hair and tells him what a wonderful kitty he is, and Jon isn't quite sure he has the hang of purring yet, but he's trying.


End file.
